"'Sdeath!" cried Hogarth, aside to the poet. I must practise what I preach. ” She replied gently. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. His safety must be looked to. He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. Then he rallied, smiling a little. F. The fashions of the day have become antiquated. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. It was not quite the search I intended,’ he said with a touch of selfmockery as he released her, ‘but success comes in all sorts of unexpected ways. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this.
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